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Broadwoodside in the Scottish Lowlands sees a steady flow of guests and visitors who come by appointment to view the gardens that Anna and Robert Dalrymple created around their 17th-century estate. Here, among the tall grasses and mown paths, shirts and pillowcases hang on lines and blow in the breeze. “Visitors always comment on them,” says Anna, “especially Americans. They say, ‘Oh, we’ll never do that again!’ because of course they all have tumble dryers.”
The sight of laundry drying outside – sheets billowing at the bottom of the garden and giant underpants hanging from the balconies of high-rise buildings – is heartwarming. But it’s also a simple, grounding activity that feels especially relevant in this hectic summer: it slows us down, tears us away from our screens, invites us to get outside – harnessing the power of nature and connecting us across the board.
Not only is it more environmentally friendly, but there’s something soothing about shaking out damp laundry, breathing in the air, finding the pegs and watching it catch the breeze. The effort is minimal and the reward is quick. “When you have everything folded up and in a basket, it’s very satisfying,” says Anna.
There is also a common thread in a tradition that has remained unchanged for generations. Take, for example, Berthe Morisot’s “Hanging Out the Washing to Dry”, painted in 1875. The scene is not too far from Broadwoodside today.
Davina Jackson has been painting laundry since the 1990s and it remains her most popular subject. “It’s nostalgic,” she says, “and it has a universal appeal. It’s a part of everyone’s life.” Some might consider it a banal subject, but Jackson’s work is full of meaning – she often paints directly onto old book covers rather than canvas, offering a new narrative to stories from Britain’s colonial past.
There are also her memories of her childhood under apartheid, when she walked through the townships and saw the laundry hanging and the maids doing the hard work of washing. “Many thoughts contrast in an everyday picture.”
Most of her paintings are bought by women. Babies and toddlers require a lot of laundry. But there is something beautiful too. “It takes us all back to our childhood,” she says. We probably don’t remember playing peek-a-boo or ducking between the sheets as babies, but those memories are deeply embedded in us.
“You have to have fun where you can,” says Emily Attrill, who sells vintage laundry baskets at her shop Straw on London’s Columbia Road. As she works, she puts her young son in a laundry basket. “He loves it,” she says. He’s not the only one; at Attrill’s monthly “Basket Drops,” 70 percent of the stock sells out within the first hour of going online.
Straw and other brands such as East London Cloth and If Only If are going for a rustic aesthetic. “We’re reactionary,” says Gemma Moulton of East London Cloth, which launches a range of vintage bed linen. “We used to use Daz to whiten our sheets, but now we prefer the natural UV stain-removing properties of the sun for environmental reasons,” she says. Line drying is also more gentle on fabrics than machine washing; there’s no risk of shrinkage or pilling.
Of course, washing lines need dry days, which is why – in the UK at least – we’re happy to use them. They also need outdoor space, even if it’s just a small one. The Italians are famous for being able to conjure one up from nothing by setting up winches between the alleyways of their towns. The Instagram account @clotheslinespoetry delivers daily postcards from the Mediterranean filled with such scenes. The island of Burano appears most frequently, where white sheets flutter in front of colourful houses.
Instagram also provided a platform for artist Helga Stentzel, whose photos of animal-shaped laundry went viral. With two sons, doing laundry was a “never-ending process” until one day she “hung a pair of pants on the line and realized they resembled a horse’s head,” she says. For fun, she added a sweater and a tea towel and posted the image. From then on, Stentzel grew her menagerie, gaining followers from the UK to Japan and leading to exhibitions in South Korea and Miami. It’s a bit of “magic in the everyday,” she says, “something we often forget to look for.”
What you won’t find on Instagram is perhaps the best thing of all – the smell. Many have tried to imitate it, but nothing compares to the original. “It just smells different,” says Stentzel. “It’s full of oxygen, I like to think.” A small thing that does good.
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